Birthday Wishes
by MASH4077th
Summary: John remembers and receives comfort from an old friend. Post-Reich.
1. Chapter 1

**This was written for a prompt from a random generator: **

**A character will prepare for a birthday, but the intention behind the action is not what it seems. A character is resigned throughout most of the story. During the story, a character finds a long-lost friend.**

**Enjoy!**

6:00 am.

John Watson simply did not want to get out of bed. He did not want to face this day. However, he was due at the surgery in an hour, so he was forced to get up. As he stood, a sharp pain raced through his leg, and gasping, he reached for his cane. Since the day that Sherlock had stepped off the roof and out of his life, John's life had very much gone back to the way it had been before they met. Hopeless. Pointless. Unbearable.

Leaning heavily on his cane, the doctor traipsed out of his bedroom and down to the kitchen. As he went, he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice wishing him a good morning. But when he looked up, pausing on his way down the stairs, there was no Sherlock to be found. His eyes dampening, he once more dropped his gaze and continued his descent.

Some days he was not like this. Some days he woke up and found he was completely fine. No nightmares, no memories, no flashbacks, no guilt. Some days he could walk without the assistance of his cane, even with a spring in his step. But then he would see or hear something that reminded him of his flatmate, and all of it would wash over him again.

John was now at work. He was just finishing an appointment with a young man who had experienced facial trauma less than a year ago. His scars had recently flared back up, and John had prescribed medicine to reduce the swelling. His jovial country-side physician mask in place throughout, he had shaken hands with the family and watched as they exited the surgery. The young man pulled his coat down from the rack in the waiting room. It was Sherlock's coat.

John's eyes widened as he watched the boy pull on the coat much as Sherlock had done, with a bit of a prideful flourish. His coattails had flown back behind him as he walked swiftly out the door. He backed into his office, shocked. And that's when John lost his grip on reality.

He vaguely remembered falling, but arms were there to support him. He saw the scar-covered face of the young man again in his mind's eye. As he watched, the face turned into Sherlock's, bloody and broken, lying on the pavement.

"John."

The picture of the detective's lifeless body flickered, and for a moment, John saw Sarah's face looking deeply into his own. He knew now that it was a nothing but a memory, a flashback, but as the picture reappeared, John began to lose himself in it as he had done so many times before. He suddenly became aware that he was growing dizzy.

"John, listen to me. Come back to reality. It's just a memory, you're alright, you're here in the surgery."

The memory again flickered, then faded. John now only saw Sarah kneeling before him. She was speaking to him, but John could not hear her over the rushing sound in his ears. He realized that he was hyperventilating.

"Slow down, John. Breathe. You're alright. Can you hear me? You're alright…"

He tried to follow her instructions, matching his breathing rate to hers. The panic was now fading, and he felt himself blush. He had just collapsed on the job, in front of Sarah. Surely he would be fired.

"Alright, that's much better. You okay? Don't worry, no one saw you but me."

"Yeah…yeah I'm fine. I'm so sorry, Sarah. That was very unprofessional."

"Don't worry about it, I'll keep it quiet. But perhaps you should call it quits for today, okay? Just go home and relax over a nice cup of tea and a comedy. I'll make excuses for you."

John could see the pity in her eyes, something he didn't much like. He wanted to be okay, but when the looks in everyone's faces were a constant reminder of that horrible day, how could he be? At first he had wanted comfort of any kind. But now, he just wanted to forget and be able to move on.

He stood up from where he had been half sitting, half lying against the wall, and steadied himself with his cane. Thanking Sarah, he collected his things and limped out of the surgery.

As always, when he reached 221B, he felt a strange aversion to going inside. And as always, he entered the flat anyway. After staggering up the stairs, he gazed around the room. All Sherlock's things were exactly where he had left them. John had not been able to bring himself to touch any of them. Part of him was curious as to whether he had left any sort of final message for him, but another part did not want to know. If he found one, he knew it would only make all this mess even worse.

He knew exactly why he had felt the memories so strongly today. Today was the sixth of January, Sherlock's birthday. Flopping down on the sofa, John recalled the first time he and Sherlock had celebrated his birthday. John had been tipped off by Mycroft that the detective seemed especially lonely today, and that today happened to be his birthday. Before Sherlock descended from his bedroom, John had whipped up a straight-from-the-box birthday cake for him, topped with icing and sprinkles. He remembered the utter shock on Sherlock's face when he had seen it, and the rare smile he had given John as he began to sing "Happy Birthday."

But all the happiness was gone now. There was nothing left to celebrate today.

The doorbell rang.

John heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door, and then to his surprise, he heard footsteps echoing up the staircase to his flat. He turned toward the door and saw none other than Greg Lestrade, looking very disheveled and wind-blown. His eyes met the doctor's. The D.I. saw none of the former sparkle of amusement and intellect that always accompanied him to Sherlock's cases. He saw only a hollow, hopeless, utterly broken man. After those few seconds of silent understanding between the two, Lestrade entered the flat and sat next to John on the sofa.

They sat in silence for nearly a minute, neither looking at the other. John was merely grateful to know that someone cared enough to come by the flat. After a few minutes more of stillness, Lestrade felt it was necessary to speak up.

"I remember the first time I found out it was Sherlock's birthday. He always refused to tell me, for some reason. But Donovan somehow managed to get a look at his records, and we found it. So on his birthday, we decided to call him into a fake crime scene. We really had all the Scotland Yarders crouched in a dark office and ready to yell "surprise." The look on his face was one I'll never forget. He nearly jumped out of his skin, but he looked so happy. He was happy that someone cared about him. I don't think he got much of that as a kid. But then, of course, he decided to pretend he was annoyed and yelled at me about what a bloody idiot I was. But later, when everyone else had left our mini-party, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug. God, he was so young then. But I never forgot that day. That was one of the only times I ever saw his mask of indifference and cold logic slip. Until you came around, of course."

John actually chuckled at Lestrade's story, remembering what a git Sherlock could be. Lestrade saw this and felt as if he had won a battle.

"Do you think we should celebrate? You know, just to remember?"

John thought for a moment, his lips pursed, then nodded. He and Lestrade got to their feet.

And so they baked a cake for Sherlock, to remember all the good times they had with him. Though he had been nearly impossible to work with, and even more so to live with, both men had loved him as a brother. Lestrade lit the candles, and they both began to sing, though it was very ugly and off-pitch.

"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Sherlock…happy birthday to you!"


	2. Chapter 2

6:00 am.

John groaned in annoyance at the sound of his alarm clock. Rolling over, he slowly reached across his nightstand and hit the snooze button. He now lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Was it really time to get up? He checked the clock on his phone just to be sure. Indeed it was. On opening his phone, he found that he had missed two calls. Both were from Molly Hooper.

Surprised, John raised his eyebrows and dialed Molly's number without listening to the messages she had left. After receiving no answer, he checked his voicemail.

"Hey, John, just calling to check in. I know we haven't spoken for a while, and I'm really sorry that we haven't, but I thought I would give you a ring. Also, sorry it's so early, but this is the only time I have today. Anyway, I wanted to say hello and make sure you were alright. I know this day must be hard for you. I can come by your flat if you'd like some company. Okay…well, hopefully I will talk to you some other time. Bye."

On hearing this, a small smile played across John's face. She had always been kind and caring to him. To call on Sherlock's birthday was an unexpected, but certainly appreciated gesture. She had left a second message. John opened it.

"Hey, John, it's me again."

John frowned when he heard her voice shaking, though she was obviously trying to keep it steady.

"Umm…just whenever you get this, could you please call me back? I…I just found something that you'll be interested in. It's a note from Sherlock. I don't know where it came from; I just found it in a pile of all his stuff he left in the hospital. Call me back whenever you can…or you can stop by the lab. You've still got full access. Okay. Thanks. Bye."

John's heart was pounding. A note from Sherlock? This was exactly what he had been hoping for. He still had not been able to touch the detective's things to look for a final message, but he was glad that Molly had. Getting up from the bed, John quickly called the surgery and informed them that he would not be coming in that day.

John was coping. It was Sherlock's second birthday since his passing. The doctor had been absolutely grief-stricken for months, and had even relapsed to his old psychosomatic leg injury. But that was gone now, and he no longer required the assistance of his cane. There were times when John felt guilty that he was leading an almost-normal life with Sherlock gone. He would never have thought it possible back when it had first happened. But somewhere deep down, John knew that Sherlock would not have wanted him to shut down. He would have wanted John to go on and live his life. Of course John would never forget his best friend, nor would a day ever pass that he did not think of him. But instead of the waves of grief this used to cause, most of the time the memories would make John smile, even laugh.

After a quick breakfast, during which he texted Molly and informed her that he was on his way, John hailed a cab and went to the hospital to meet her. Upon entering the lab, he found her standing in a corner, reading what undoubtedly was the note.

"Oh, John…thank you for coming," she said, striding towards him and embracing him. "And I'm sorry for sounding so upset on my message. I hope I didn't upset you too."

"No, no, Molly, it's fine. It's great to see you again. I'm just glad you found it."

"Yeah, me too. Here it is," she said, handing over the paper she was holding. "Are you sure you want to see?"

"Of course. Thanks."

John smirked when he saw that the note was handwritten, in the detective's always beautiful handwriting. _What a ridiculous, stuck up prat he was, _John thought. The note was addressed to Molly.

_Dear Molly,_

_I have been made aware by John's constant badgering that I have been rude to you many times over the eight years we have worked together. Please accept my full apologies. It was entirely unintentional. It is as John says: though I am a genius, I simply do not often think of how my actions affect those around me. So._

_Molly, I am afraid that I will not be seeing you again. So I want you to know what I have never been able to say to you in person. You are without a doubt the most beautiful woman I have ever seen who has any brains at all. I regret that I have not expressed my feelings for you before these last few moments of mine, in which I will not see you. I was afraid of these feelings because I had learned long ago that emotions interfere with logic. But the fact is, I do not care anymore. I love you, Molly Hooper. I always have. And I always will._

_Thank you for everything._

_-SH_

John was in shock. He could not believe that Sherlock, his best friend, had written these words. He had always known that the detective had feelings somewhere inside that ridiculous heart of his, but he never, _never_, would have thought that he would have written them down and conveyed them to another person. He re-read the letter. Yes, the message was clear. The doctor found his eyes moistening and grumbled in frustration. He didn't want to cry in front of Molly, as she was already upset.

"Idiot," he said thickly. "What a bloody, stupid, ignorant git."

"What?" said Molly, aghast.

John pictured Sherlock blushing again and again as he wrote these words, and smirked. A tear of fondness fell unheeded down his face. "He is a bloody idiot for not saying this to you before." John began to chuckle through his tears, and Molly did the same.

"I suppose you're right," she said. "You know, I liked him for ages. But he was always _so_ rude to me. I just gave up on him after a while. But it turns out that he was human after all."

Tears sprang up in her eyes afresh. "Oh John…I wish it hadn't ended this way. It must be so hard for you. It's just…it's just hard thinking about all the things that could have happened, but didn't. You know, all the good times that never came."

John turned toward her and gently grasped her shoulder. "But remember all the good times that _did _come. That's the only way I'm getting through. Remember all the stupid things we did, all the cases we solved, and your friendship that lasted for years. Remember what was, and not what could have been. He wouldn't have wanted that."

Taking his hand, Molly replied, "Thank you, John. You're right. We did have some good times, didn't we? All those mad cases he brought in."

"Yeah, we did," John said, a grin spreading across his face. "I'd better get going, Molly. I'll come back and see you sometime."

"Thanks for coming by, John. I really appreciate it. And," she added, "Take care of yourself, alright?"

"I will. You do the same."

Now back in the flat, John stared at the piles of Sherlock's things. Taking a deep breath, he determined to rifle through the pages, no matter how much strength it took. If Molly could do it, so could he. Unconsciously making two cups of tea, one for himself and one for Sherlock, he picked up the top stack of papers and blew off the dust. The first page was a handwritten note on the same stationary that had been used for the letter to Molly. John unfolded it, his heart pounding.

It was addressed to him.

**Thanks for reading; hope you enjoyed! Reviews are much appreciated, and any criticism is very helpful.**


	3. Chapter 3

With eerily steady hands, John opened the letter. He noticed immediately that instead of Sherlock's usual perfectly-even handwriting, this script was very jagged. It looked as if he had been pressing down very hard on the page.

_To my dearest friend John Watson, _the letter began.

John gasped sharply. Tears sprang into his eyes. _I can't do this, I can't_. He looked up to the ceiling of _their_ flat to keep the tears from spilling over. Breathing deeply, he endeavored to recover himself. _I have to do this for him._

He snapped his head back down, military demeanor in place. He had to read his best friend's final words. He owed it to him. Giving one final sigh of release, John picked up the letter once more.

_To my dearest friend John Watson,_

_I do not doubt that you will not see this for a good while after I am gone. I have observed that you never willingly touch your old military things because you are, and always have been, a sentimental idiot. I assume it will be much the same with the various things I have left lying around our flat. But John, today is the day that I get to be the one to express my feelings, as you have so often prodded me._

_You are, without a doubt, the best friend that I have ever had. As a kid, I never really had friends because they called me a freak. There was a time when I cared about what they said, but eventually, I learned to block out the negative emotions their taunts gave me. In doing so, however, I became the sociopath that you befriended, against all odds. Over the years I have known you, you have somehow broken through my detachment and have forced me to realize that blocking out emotions is not a good way to live one's life. Friends are what beg one too keep living, even in one's darkest moments. You, John, have unwittingly done so many times. Though you were not always there when my dark thoughts emerged, your voice always whispered to me, telling me to live on._

_And now I get to return the favor. I gave my life, as you have saved mine many times, to save yours. But do NOT feel guilty, John, because all my life, I have waited for a chance to do this. I have been waiting to have a friend for whom I would be willing to sacrifice my life. Somehow, you have been willing to sacrifice your life for strangers. I never understood this. Perhaps this is why, prior to our friendship, I did not believe in the existence of heroes. But I believe that your willingness to sacrifice your life for anyone else's must be makes a hero, because I have never met any other person quite like you. And you are, without a doubt, the most heroic person I have ever met. For that, I thank you._

_I am ready for death, and I am unafraid. I have now experienced the greatest joy that any man can experience: loving a friend as a brother. How could I ask for more? Surely there can be no greater happiness than this. My dear John, thank you, thank you so much for being my best friend; my brother._

_Farewell. And be sure that you take the various body parts out of our refrigerator out before they poison our food._

_Your flatmate, friend, and brother,_

_-Sherlock_

John read and reread this letter. Then, carefully folding it up, he placed it in his breast pocket. He vowed would carry this letter until the end of his days. Then, sinking down on Sherlock's chair, he wept.

_To the world's only consulting detective, my best friend, flatmate, colleague, and brother,_

_Happy birthday, again. You're an old man now, like me, but lucky you! You never had to know what it's like to become like your grandfather. I do not feel old. Yet, here I am._

_You would laugh if you saw me now, a wrinkled, dull old man spending his last days in a nursing home. My blasted leg has finally given out on me, and I can no longer stand. I have forgotten many things, old friend, but I have not forgotten you. I have not forgotten all the cases we solved, all the mad things we did, all the good times we had. They say that I live in the past. They think I have lost my sanity. But I do not care. I miss you more than you could ever know, and I have ever since you left. But don't worry, Sherlock, because I'm going to see you again in a bit. Then we can go on mad adventures together again._

_I don't think I have much time left here in this ridiculously humid nursing home, and thank God for that. I can't wait to see you again. When I do, I will punch you in the face for what you did, but I'll be happy all the same._

_Goodbye, Sherlock. Until we meet again._

_-John_

**Thus, my story ends. Thank you all for reading! And thank you for the fabulous reviews, it is not often that I receive compliments for my writing. I feel like I should explain part of my purpose for writing this.**

**About a month and a half ago, a friend of mine from my church committed suicide. I did not know her very well, but I know her best friends. It was heartbreaking enough for ****_me_**** to deal with her death, but even more so to watch her best friends grieve. Even more heartbreaking was that her birthday was a mere 28 days after her death. I suppose this story was a bit of a coping mechanism. The descriptions of John's feelings came from my own as well as from my friends'. I just felt like you all should know that.**

**Thank you so much for reading. It means the world to me.**


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